My Celtic Page


frittilaria

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night what wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
and in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
~Swinburne~ .


Ah, Celtic people, may you find peace with one another.




miranda



Medieval Irish Poem


In a cloak, that bright breast of yours-
it should not be the blackthorn brooch;
for you it is, sweet redmouthed Mór,
the one brooch of gold [left] in Éire.

In your cloak, the proper equipment is
only a brooch of noble finndruinna
or a wondrous brooch made of gold,
sweetworded redmouthed Mór.

Oh, soft hair the color of amber,
oh, furrow in the dapplegold cloak,
oh, resolute arch which may never betray a man,
a brooch of blackthorn is not fitting.

You should sow, my heart's nut,
in [your] many-yellowed checked cloak
(her red cheeks -- a hard-run prize)
only a hard-to-make brooch by Goibhniu.

Crimson cheek that harrows me,
without a gold pin - only this hour of mine -
for the length of an hour, oh pure hand -
for the green cloak of your soul.



For the original Celtic language and commentary:Go!




line


Did you follow the link to Medieval Irish Poetry ? I need to gather some links together to showcase the lovely way the Irish can turn a phrase. Some call it blarney, but to me, someone of Irish blood has so much poetry in their soul.


See what I mean, below



Song by Thomas Moore

They may rail at this life -- from the hour I began it
I found it a life full of kindness and bliss,
And until they can show me some happier planet,
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes
As before me this moment enraptur'd I see,
They may say what they will of the orbs in the skies,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them
New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,
Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,
They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.
And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,
And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour
At twilight so often we've roam'd thro' the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,
And look in their twilights as lovely as you.
But tho' they were even more bright than the queen
Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why, this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare.
Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,
And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.





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